


Starfleet and Spellcraft

by Straight_Outta_Hobbiton



Category: Star Trek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 15:04:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9077953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Straight_Outta_Hobbiton/pseuds/Straight_Outta_Hobbiton
Summary: Hogwarts, the last of the Magical Institutions, has long since abandoned any attempt to separate Muggle from Magical. Many Starfleet legends have passed through its hallowed halls, not the least of which being James Kirk, Leonard McCoy, and the only Magical Vulcan to date.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Secret Santa gift for punk-rock-yuppie on tumblr! It took a bit of a left turn from what I was planning, but hey, Hogwarts AU, right?
> 
> Posted on my tumblr page originally, but here it is on ao3 just in case.

Hufflepuffs, Jim thinks, make uniquely good friends. They're known for their loyalty, yeah, and they're typically a good-hearted bunch— but that's not all they are. Take Bones, for example.

 

Bones, for all intents and purposes, is a complete and utter asshole. Oh, he's a charming enough guy when the situation calls for it and he's on the fast track to a Mastery

in Mediwizardry, but he's a complete and utter... well, he's a dick. A huge, throbbing, grumpy dick, who takes sadistic pleasure in dragging Jim to the Hospital Wing every time he manages to get into a fight— which is like, every day. Jim doesn't need that kind of crap in his life. He just doesn't.

 

He needs Bones, though, so he deals.

 

In a weird sort of way, he gets it. He feels an irascible need to take care of Bones too— the guy spends way too much time cooped up in the library, especially considering any and all other 'free time' is spent patrolling with other prefects, sleeping, or helping out in the Hospital Wing. If it weren't for Jim, he'd be even skinnier than he is, and he'd survive on furtively brewed Pepper-Ups and coffee.

 

Jim is doing him a service when he drags him off to a prefects-only soiree. Well, party. It's a party. But a prefect party— a bunch of goody two-shoes and straight-O students sitting around with butterbeer and dinner talking Astronomy homework over sandwiches. Nothing big. Certainly nothing that'll offend Bones' delicate sensibilities, should he decide he's feeling particularly cross.

 

It’s perfect. Jim’s a great friend.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Leonard is tired. He’s tired because he’s got a mountain of homework that needs doing, he’s tired because he hasn’t slept in three days, he’s tired because he’s been studying for NEWTs, and most importantly, he’s tired because  _someone_  (Jim) didn’t get the hint (he’d been wearing pajamas, for Christ’s sake) that he needed to  _sleep_ , to  _rest_ , to  _recharge_ .

 

Jim is a lousy friend.

 

Still, that doesn’t stop Bones from keeping an eye out when Jim decides to bat his eyelashes at the fifth year Gryffindor prefect who’d been put in charge of spelling the punch bowl so that it remains free of any potentially inappropriate side effects. Half a gallon of Saurian Brandy will be dumped into the damn thing before the end of the hour, he’s certain of it, and while normally he’d put a stop to it, Leonard’s stash has been running low, and he really,  _really_  needs a drink.

 

Honestly, if Bones didn’t know better, he’d swear Jim was a Legilimens. He always knows what to say, how to make people bend to his will and follow him with a charming smile and a conversation about Transfiguration theory. He always knows what people need to hear, what people are thinking— but he isn’t a Legilimens. Bones has had him tested.

 

The Gryffindor’s will is crumbling, Leonard can see it out of the corner of his eye. She has dreams of becoming a Cursebreaker, has already looked into finding an apprenticeship in the subject. She offers to show Jim the warding technique on the punchbowl, pleased that he finds the complexity of the spell so fascinating.

 

Bones rolls his eyes and sips his butterbeer.

 

“I see Jim’s managed to ensnare Gretchen Weasley,” remarks a pretty, feminine voice. He looks up into Christine Chapel’s smiling face. “I’m impressed.”

 

Leonard arches an eyebrow.

 

“Are you?” he asks. “The girl’s been makin’ moon eyes at him since he introduced himself on the train.”

 

“Moon eyes, Mr. McCoy?” Spock inquires from beside her. “I am unfamiliar with the phrase.”

 

Leonard scowls instinctively.

 

“Spock,” he says sharply. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

 

“Miss Chapel insisted I attend,” Spock explains primly. “She believes that, in my last year, I ought to attend some social gatherings with my Magical peers.”

 

“And you agreed?” Leonard looks away. “Never mind. Moon eyes are something a person gets when they have a crush. Something I’m sure you’ve never experienced.”

 

“You would be correct in that assumption, Mr. McCoy.” 

 

“Bones, there you are! And socializing, too.” Jim collapses into the seat beside him, handing over a clear glass of bright orange punch. If Leonard remembers correctly, the liquid had been pink when they arrived.

 

He takes the glass and drains it in three long swallows, gasping quietly when he pauses to breathe.

 

“Not bad, Jim.”

 

“A resounding success, I think,” Jim says cheerfully, sipping his own drink. “How are you, Spock? Rumor has it you’ve been sequestering yourself in the Restricted Section the last few weeks.”

 

“I have been gathering sources for my final research paper,” Spock says. “I take it you have not yet begun.”

 

“Nope,” Jim says with a pop, grinning. “Still looking for a subject of interest. You know how it is.”

 

“I do not believe I do.” Spock straightens the sleeve of his blue-lined robes. “I find all Magical subjects equally fascinating, if poorly explained in most texts.”

 

“Care for a drink, Christine?” Leonard asks, pushing himself to his feet. He has a feeling this conversation’s going to go on long past his ability to be civil with Spock.

 

“Oh— no, Leo, but thanks for the offer.” Christine smiles at him. “Remind me to catch you before the end of the night— I’ve been wanting someone to look over my Charms essay, and you’re the only one who can read my handwriting.”

 

“Sure thing. I’ll talk to you later, Jim. Spock.”

 

Bones escapes before Jim can try to pull him back, making a beeline for the punch.

 

Carol beats him to it.

 

“Can’t you keep control of your friend?” she says, shaking her head as she pours herself a drink. “Uhura’s going to notice the punch’s been spiked.”

 

“Carol, you’ve dated him. You know a leash doesn’t help.”

 

She hums.

 

“Lord knows I’ve tried it,” she agrees, sipping carefully. Her eyes widen. “Not bad.”

 

“Yeah, the pineapple really complements the brandy, don’t you think?” Leonard takes a long draught. It doesn’t burn so much the second time around. “How are you doing?”

 

“Alright,” she says, shrugging. “My Dad’s pushing for a recommendation to Starfleet again.”

 

“Are you gonna do it?”

 

Carol sighs.

 

“I’ve thought about it,” she admits. “I like the thought of seeing the stars.”

 

“So does Jim.” Leonard shivers. “I just don’t think I can deal with the wand policy, you know?”

 

“It’s for the best,” she says. “You know magic can damage Muggle technology. Not the best thing for a starship filled with photon torpedos.”

 

“And people.” He shakes his head. “Why anybody would want to get into a flying tin can is beyond me, but Jim’s dead set on the idea.”

 

She gives him a knowing smile.

 

“So that means you’re not far behind him.”

 

Bones opens his mouth to deny it, except Carol  _is_  a Legilimens, an accomplished one at that, and she has no problems calling him out on the lie.

 

Instead he grumbles.

 

“Slytherins always think they know so much,” he mutters.

 

“That would be Ravenclaws,” Carol corrects him. “Where’s Edith?”

 

Leonard shrugs.

 

“She’s been volunteering in the Centaur Preserve on weekends,” he says. “I assume she’s still there.”

 

“Always a cause, with that one,” Carol says. “It has nothing to do with her avoiding Jim, of course.”

 

“... Of course.” That had been a bad break-up. Jim’s still a mess about the whole thing, and Edith… well, Edith is coping in her own way.

 

The blonde tuts.

 

“It’s a shame,” she says. “Those two were good for each other.” She refills her glass with the flick of her wand. “It was nice talking to you, Leo. Are you still up for our meeting next week?”

 

“Somebody’s gotta teach the first years menstruation spells, right?” He gives her a wry smile. “Next Friday.”

 

“Seven o’clock sharp.” Carol presses a kiss to his cheek and slips away before he can scold her, grin positively maniacal.

 

Brat.

 

Well, Leonard’s stuck here for at least another hour— Jim’ll bitch otherwise. He may as well go find himself a corner to drink in.

 

He hates parties.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Most people, Leonard reflects over breakfast, tend to forget Jim’s a Slytherin. He gets it— Jim’s a nice, polite guy. He’s friendly, and charming, and fair in his role as Head Boy. He’s nothing like most of his standoffish housemates, even though he probably has a better reason to put his nose in the air then all of them put together. That being said, there’s one person that never forgets.

 

The Head Girl.

 

“I can’t believe you let him spike the drinks!”

 

Nyota Uhura is a goddess in the flesh. Beautiful to the point of perfection, highly intelligent, and, most importantly, wrathful when crossed. Gryffindor red looks good on her.

 

“Why are you yellin’ at me?” he asks flatly. “I’m not his damn keeper.”

 

“You’re the closest thing we’ve got,” she says. “And I would be giving this speech to Kirk, except  _he’s_  decided to hole up in his dorm and nurse his hangover— and he’s not the only one!”

 

Leonard winces.

 

“Quieter, please,” he begs. “I’m not much better off.”

 

Uhura blinks.

 

“You— God, I don’t know why I even bother.” She turns on her heel, exasperated, and returns to the Gryffindor table.

 

Thank God.

 

“Nyota seems quite distressed.”

 

Bones jumps, knocking over his goblet with a flailing hand.

 

“Jesus, Spock, don’t do that,” he growls, sopping up the mess with his napkin.

 

“Apologies, Mr. McCoy.”

 

Leonard grunts.

 

“What the hell do you want?”

 

Spock arches an eyebrow.

 

“Nothing, Mr. McCoy,” he says. “Merely to inquire as to the reason behind her irritation.”

 

“What do you think? Jim,  _again_ .”

 

“Your tone suggests dislike,” Spock remarks. “But yet you remain his most constant companion.”

 

“Well, somebody has to look out after the little asshole,” he says. “May as well be me.”

 

“That is illogical.”

 

“Feelings, Spock. It has to do with feelings.” That usually puts the green-blooded bastard off.

 

“How so?”

 

“Oh, for the love of—” Bones cuts himself off. “Leave me alone, Spock. My head’s pounding too hard to deal with you right now.”

 

“My apologies.” Spock nods stiffly. “I will leave you to your meal.”

 

And just like that, he’s gone.

 

The single, beautiful thing about Vulcans, Leonard thinks to himself as he skewers a piece of bacon with his fork, is that bluntness can get you anywhere.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Chekov is Leonard’s partner in Potions. It’s weird, working with a kid six years younger than him, but Lord knows the fourteen year-old has more than proved his abilities.

 

“More Pepper-Up, Mr. McCoy?” he asks brightly, peering into Leonard’s secondary cauldron as he stirs. “We are working on the Daught of Living Death today.”

 

“I’m aware,” Leonard says, not looking away from his cauldron. “My supply’s running low.”

 

“NEWTs,” Chekov says sagely. “I am finding that my own attempts to remain focused are becoming less and less effective.”

 

“That’s what you get for starting Starfleet courses early,” Bones says. “Pass me the beetle eyes, would you?”

 

“You say that as though it is not common knowledge that you have taken on your own extracurriculars, Mr. McCoy,” Chekov says, obediently handing over the bowl. “Everyone knows you are less than a year away from a degree in Muggle medicine, and that you are aiming for a Mastery in mediwizardry.”

 

Bones rolls his eyes.

 

“I can’t help that people talk, Mr. Chekov,” he says, flicking a handful of eyes into the cauldron. “You, however, opened that Starfleet acceptance letter in the middle of breakfast.”

 

“I do not care if the whole school knows. I am proud of my achievements.”

 

“And I’m proud of mine— just don’t feel the need to broadcast, is all.”

 

“I understand. It is difficult, being special.” Chekov tilts his head curiously. “How many NEWTs are you taking again?”

 

“Five. Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, Ancient Runes, and Alchemy.”

 

The teen whistles.

 

“Along with your medical studies? And your work in the Infirmary?” he asks. “I can’t believe you haven’t collapsed, Mr. McCoy.”

 

“The Hospital Wing is just so I have a residency on the books. I want that Mastery.”

 

“That I can see, Mr. McCoy.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Montgomery Scott is a fascinating combination of Muggle ingenuity and Magical impracticality. A pioneer in modern technomancy, he is probably the truest example of Ravenclaw spirit— at least, as Spock understands it.

 

His current project is a portable transwarp beaming device, adaptable for both Magical and Muggle use. It has taken up residence on one of the back tables of the Common Room, a mess of papers, wires, and possibly uranium. Spock has asked him on multiple occasions to move his project to one of the off-campus labs, or at least to raise wards to contain the damage when it inevitably explodes, but Scott is an excitable sort, and often forgets safety procedure in favor of his newest stroke of genius.

 

Long story short, the beaming device explodes. Mr. Scott is very lucky that the Common Room is mostly empty, save for Mr. Chekov (his assistant in most projects) and Spock himself.

 

Spock is not so lucky, as the explosion results in one of the bookcases to collapse, pinning him to the ground by his right arm. He can’t help the cry of pain— it’s startled out of him by the suddenness of the event.

 

“Mr. Spock? Spock, are you alright?”

 

A frightened face hovers over him, singed and sooty.

 

Spock forces himself to speak, to ignore the pain and the sudden numbness that simultaneously have managed to shatter his control.

 

“Get M’Benga,” he gets out. “M’Benga!”

 

“Chekov, you heard him. Go!”

 

Spock hears shifting, the door swinging open, footsteps, but it seems distant, it seems…

 

“Don’t pass out, Mr. Spock, please don’t pass out—”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Bones has a study group. Jim doesn’t know why, but the thought always makes him laugh. Bones, misanthropic grump extraordinaire, has a mediwizardry study group— tequila shots included.

 

When Jim has the time, his favorite thing to do is to join in. He learns a lot of potentially useful information, plus there’s liquor. Bones doesn’t skimp on liquor, and there’s always plenty of it— something apparently necessary when studying Counter Curses and Mending Incantations.

 

The quiet muttering and clinking of glasses is incredibly soothing to a somewhat sloshed Jim Kirk. That might be why it’s especially jarring when Pavel Chekov rushes into the otherwise empty classroom, wild-eyed and panting.

 

“M’Benga, there has been an accident!” he gasps. “Mr. Spock is hurt!”

 

All three would-be medics stand in unison.

 

“What’s happened?” M’Benga demands, gathering his things.

 

“There was an explosion— Mr. Spock’s arm is trapped under one of the bookcases—”

 

“His hand, is his hand okay?” Leonard barks, fumbling for one of his textbooks.

 

“I do not know, sir.”

 

“If there’s nerve damage, I can’t help him,” M’Benga says. “I’ve got no Xeno training, and the nearest Starfleet hospital—”

 

“I can stabilize him,” Bones interrupts, holding up his book. “Chekov, take me to the tower, now!”

  
  


*.*

  
  


The sound of shouting followed by a sudden release of pressure is what brings Spock back to full and painful consciousness. He hisses at the lightning bolt of agony that floods his mind, shifting to escape it, to get away to—

 

“Don’t move, Spock, you’ll only make it worse.”

 

He opens his eyes and finds wide, blue eyes staring back at him from under a furrowed brow.

 

“McCoy?” he whispers.

 

“Yep, it’s me. You’re gonna be fine, Spock, I promise.” Leonard looks up. “M’Benga, help Christine set his arm. The bone structure’s the same, just don’t forget to account for density. I’ll deal with his hand.”

 

“What’s wrong with his hand?” Jim’s voice inquires from somewhere to his left.

 

“He didn’t notice I touched it, that’s what.” Leonard looks back to Spock. “I’m going to try to heal the nerve damage, okay? Tell me if— when you start to feel anything, okay?”

 

Spock manages a short nod, head spinning from the effort.

 

“He’s gone into shock, Leo, we need to—”

 

“Jim, keep his head up!” the Hufflepuff orders. A moment later there’s a hand cupping the back of his neck, another running fingers through his hair.

 

“Spock,  _Spock_ , you’re okay,  _you’re okay_ ,” Jim mutters, trying to smile. He’s scared, Spock can feel it buzzing under his skin. He’s terrified.

 

A sudden heat draws his eyes to his mangled limb. Christine is holding his forearm in place as M’Benga waves his wand, muttering quietly under his breath as blue light wraps itself around flesh and bone, disappearing into the twitching muscle. Lower down, he sees Leonard grasping at his limp fingers, wand pressed to swollen skin.

 

Spock can’t feel his touch, let alone his touch. Panic rises in his throat.

 

“His arm’s fine, but—”

 

Leonard curses and throws his wand, shifting until both hands are cupping Spock’s hand. The space between their fingers glows gold, then red, the gold again.

 

_Wandless magic_ , he thinks distantly.  _Fascinating._

 

“Spock, try and move your fingers for me, okay?”

 

The gentleness in McCoy’s voice is almost painful, but Spock obeys. He— there’s a pressure. He can feel pressure.

 

“Good. Good. Okay, now, tell me when you can feel my thoughts, Spock. Tell me when it starts to work.”

 

Jim’s palm is pressed against his psi points, a steady pulse of  _he can do it, he can do it, he_ will _do it_  pumping against Spock’s mind.

 

Jim is so certain of him. The least Spock can do is feel the same.

 

There’s a dim twinkle of worry building in the back of his mind, something not quite his own.

 

“McCoy, I can—”

 

“It’s working, good. Okay. Okay.” McCoy takes a steadying breath and closes his eyes. The push of his magic tightens in Spock’s skin.

 

_… whole, make him whole, put it like it was, exactly like it was_ . McCoy’s thought fade away for a moment, then roar back.  _God, I’m so scared, Spock, Spock, can you hear me? Make him whole, make him whole, make him whole…_

 

His fear is genuine, his grasp gentle. It strikes Spock then how intimate this touch is, how inappropriate. It strikes Spock that he doesn’t mind.

 

“I can hear you, McCoy.”

 

His words don’t immediately register, but when they do, Leonard’s grip tightens.

 

_Oh, thank God. Oh, fuck, oh…_

 

“Any pain? Wiggle your fingers, then squeeze. I need to test.” His words are calm, professional— nothing like the thoughts skittering through his brain and subsequently through Spock’s.

 

“No.” he does as requested, carefully suppressing the slight flush rising in his cheeks. “It seems you have healed me, Mr. McCoy.”

 

Leonard scowls.

 

“Damn right I did.” He lets go, and Spock— illogically— finds he dislikes the loss. “You’ll be stiff for a few days, so I suggest you stretch a little bit— M’Benga can give you a few exercises.”

 

“You okay, Spock?” Jim asks, and- oh. He still hasn’t taken his hand away from Spock’s psi points. That’s… a nice feeling.

 

Spock sits up.

 

“It seems I am well, Mr. Kirk.”

 

Jim rolls his eyes.

 

“How many times have I told you, Spock? Call me Jim.” He grins up at Leonard. “Nice job, Doc.”

 

“Don’t you dare call me that— you know how deep in shit I’d be if I fucked up?” Leonard shakes his head and gets to his feet.

 

“But you didn’t,” Jim points out.

 

Leonard’s scowl deepens.

 

“I’m beat. I’m going to bed.” And with that, he turns on his heel and leaves.

 

“I think that’s the end of our study session,” Christine murmurs, smiling slightly.

 

“I think you’re right,” M’Benga agrees. “Spock, you should rest too. Medical magic can be a little disorienting.”

 

“I am aware.” Spock nods. “Thank you for your assistance, M’Benga.”

 

“Don’t thank me— Leo’s the one with the xenobiology experience.” M’Benga smiles slightly. “I think he has the right idea actually. Bed sounds good right about now.”

 

Spock nods again and turns to Scott and Chekov.

 

“No more experimental equipment in the Common Room. Agreed, Mr. Scott?”

 

“Agreed.” Scott shifts awkwardly. “I can’t apologize enough—”

 

“You are forgiven, Mr. Scott. I suggest you and Mr. Chekov bathe before bed.”

 

Both boys nod and scramble to the dormitories. Jim snickers.

 

“Softie,” he says, patting him on the back amiably. “Well, if the excitement’s over, I think I’ll hit the hay, too. Night, guys.”

 

Spock watches him go, something fizzling uncomfortably in his stomach.

 

Magic often has odd effects on him.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Leonard McCoy is seated at the desk furthest away from the library entrance, in the rarely visited Magical Automechanics Section. Spock has always appreciated that knowledge— whatever the subject— should be cherished. However, Magical Vehicles went out of fashion right around the time that shuttles became available for public use. It is impractical to waste precious library space on such a subject, especially with the consideration that the last book borrowed from this particular section was in 2198.

 

(Spock likes to help Madame Pince sometimes. He finds her ghostly presence soothing.)

 

This particular desk is a favorite of Leonard’s. Spock has yet to see the desk empty outside of classes and the occasional mealtime. Each time, Leonard is hunched over a mountain of books, muttering angrily to himself as he makes notes. It seems nothing escapes the young man’s fury— not even Medimagical Theory.

 

Spock isn’t sure why, but the would-be doctor’s anger is fascinating to him. It colors every facet of the young man’s existence, burning steadily in his too-blue eyes.

 

Spock often catches himself watching the other prefect when he ought not to be.

 

“What the hell are you starin’ at me for?”

 

… Like right now.

 

Inwardly startled, he gazes at the mop of hair just visible from over the top of Advanced Mediwizardry And Its Applications In the Non-Magical World serenely.

 

“Are you often enraged by your reading?” He asks. “If so, might I suggest a more soothing book?”

 

There’s a pause, then two blue eyes appear from over top the book.

 

“Spock? What in the hell are you doing here?” Another pause, and then, “Was that a joke?”

 

“I would not presume to joke, Mr. McCoy,” Spock says flatly. To his surprise, Leonard huffs a laugh.

 

“Of course you wouldn’t,” he says, shutting the book. “I’ve been at this too long. Where’s Jim? He usually starts to bother me around now.”

 

“Mr. Kirk is currently serving detention with Professor Finnegan,” Spock informs him. “He is unavailable to… bother you.”

 

“Good thing you showed up then,” Leonard says, sitting back. He lets out a sigh, rubbing at his eyes. “Jesus, I’m tired.”

 

“Then it would be logical to rest.” Spock pauses. “And perhaps eat something with more nutritional value than a Sugar Quill.”

 

“Oh really, Mr. Spock? And what would be you suggestio—”

 

A loud crash startles Leonard out of his chair, cutting off the rest of his sentence with a choked gasp as he whirls to peer out the window.

 

“Is that— an owl?”

 

“Indeed.” Spock steps past him and opens the window. The owl— complete with goggles and what looks to be some sort of helmet— hops inside, nipping affectionately at Spock’s fingers when he moves to pet it.

 

“Spock?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Is that your owl?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Why is your owl wearing… you dressed it up like an old Terran pilot.”

 

“QoH has an eye condition that cannot be rectified with modern medicine,” Spock explains. “So I felt it necessary to provide him with corrective lenses.”

 

“... Okay. And the helmet?”

 

“He is not very intelligent.”

 

Leonard blinks.

 

“He flies into windows a lot?”

 

“Affirmative. He is excitable, and often does not seem to be aware of his surroundings. He will fly into walls, trees, and any other potential protruding obstacle. I believed protective headgear may protect him from further brain damage.”

 

Leonard stares, uncomprehending, then begins to laugh. He can’t help it— Spock has an idiot for an owl. Spock’s owl wears a helmet because it’s too stupid to notice there’s a  _wall_ in front of it.

 

There are real tears, right now.

 

“And on that note, I need to get some sleep.” He’s still laughing as he collects his books, stuffing them unceremoniously into his bag. “Thanks for this, Spock, I really needed a laugh.”

 

“... You are welcome, Mr. McCoy.”

 

And with that, Leonard turns on his heel and leaves them both.

 

Suppressing a sigh, Spock turns to QoH.

 

“Your timing has always been dismal, at best,” he tells it. “But I believe this may have been your worst interruption yet. I was unable to thank him for his aid.”

 

The owl blinks, then pecks his hand painfully before taking off through the window.

 

Spock named him well, it seems.

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Wait, what did you say Spock’s owl was called?”

 

“Jim, you know I’m shit at foreign language. K-oh, or something. I assume it’s Vulcan.”

 

Jim stares.

 

“That’s not Vulcan,” he says slowly. “It’s Klingon.”

 

“Oh? What’s it mean, then?”

 

“Well, assuming you’re not mispronouncing it— which, let’s be real, you probably are…” Jim trails off, smirking. “Then Spock’s owl is named ‘idiot’.”

 

Leonard stops mid-chew.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“‘QoH’ is the Klingon word for ‘idiot’.” The blond chuckles. “And you always say Vulcans don’t have a sense of humor.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Spock’s never met such a bullheaded Human— and he’s enrolled in a school full of wizards. And he knows Jim Kirk.

 

Leonard is sitting two seats to his left in their only shared class— Alchemy. He’s not paying attention, focused instead on the quill he’s trying to balance on the desk. Clearly, it shouldn’t work; the desk is slanted, and the quill point is bent and chewed— but Leonard’s fingertips glow in just the slightest way that indicate Magical intent. Sure enough, when he lets go, the quill shudders and straightens, standing on its own.

 

Wandless Magic is difficult to master. That being said, there is a short list of careers that require the mastery— Mediwizardry being one of them. It isn’t strange that McCoy might have learned the skill during his time in the Hospital Wing. However, applying the skill to healing spells and something as simple as this… Spock doesn’t understand. There is no purpose to this Magic, besides perhaps distraction. There is no use, no need.

 

There are many things Spock doesn’t understand about McCoy. After continued conversation with Jim on the subject, Spock has decided the only way he may ever understand the man is to seek explanation— so, when class ends and McCoy is startled into collecting his notes and shoving them haphazardly into his bag, the Vulcan does the logical thing and approaches him.

 

“You are adept at Wandless Magic, Mr. McCoy,” he remarks, making the Hufflepuff jump.

 

“Jesus fuck, Spock, don’t sneak up on me like that.” Leonard scowls tiredly up at him. “Gonna give me a damn heart attack…”

 

He trails off.

 

“Apologies, Mr. McCoy,” Spock says. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

 

“You didn’t frighten me. You just need to make some goddamn noise when you appear over my shoulder with weird comments.”

 

“What is… ‘weird’ about my observation of your obvious skill?”

 

Leonard blinks.

 

“What?”

 

“Why is it strange that I recognized you have a rare skill?” Spock doesn’t know what Leonard sees when he searches his expression (besides perfect, Vulcan calm), but it makes something in him shift.

 

“Nothing. I didn’t… I’m just tired, Spock, and being tired makes me irritable.”

 

“I have been led to believe that everything makes you irritable, Mr. McCoy,” Spock says. “But it is of little consequence. Tell me— what made you study Wandless Magic?”

 

Leonard blinks, clearly fighting the urge to snap at Spock’s comment or focus instead on the question.

 

“It’s required, for Mediwizardry,” he says, shouldering his backpack. “That’s all.”

 

“I do not believe so, unless balancing broken quills is a revolutionary new surgical skill I have yet to read about.” Spock arches an eyebrow. “Do you enjoy it?”

 

“It’s damn hard,” Leonard says. “But necessary.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Why do you ask so many damn questions?”

 

“Your tone suggests irritation, but I am unsure why. I am merely trying to understand.”

 

“Why?” That sounds like mocking, but Spock answers honestly anyway.

 

“Jim is a friend,” he says. “And you are a friend of his. It would be beneficial if we could at least be civil with one another.”

 

Leonard glares at him a moment, then sighs.

 

“You’re going to the Vulcan Science Academy after this all ends, right?” he asks.

 

“Likely not.” Spock ignores the surprise on the Human’s face. “My time in Hogwarts has not prepared me for the rigors of the Vulcan Science Academy. Instead, I will be enrolling in Starfleet, taking advantage of the program already in place for Magical recruits.”

 

“... Logical, I guess.” Leonard runs a hand through his hair. “Jim’s going into Starfleet, too. He’s gonna take Pike’s ship out from under him.”

 

“He has mentioned something of the sort.” He pauses. “He also said you planned to join him.”

 

Leonard snorts.

 

“Somebody’s gotta keep an eye on the idiot,” he says. “And anyway, what else is there?”

 

“You are soon to be a registered Healer,” Spock points out. “And, if gossip is to be believed, you will be receiving your medical degree from a Muggle institution shortly after your graduation from Hogwarts.”

 

“... Where’d you hear that from?”

 

“Am I incorrect?”

 

Leonard sighs.

 

“Yeah, it’s true,” he admits. “Doctorates and certifications lessen time at the Academy, and if I’m going to keep up with Jim, I’m going to need all the help I can get.”

 

“Graduating at the same time does not guarantee that you will be placed on the same ship.”

 

“Shut the fuck up Spock.” Fury always sparkles brightest in light eyes, Spock realizes. “I don’t wanna hear it.”

 

“I did not mean to offend—”

 

“Listen, I know the plan isn’t foolproof, but goddammit, I’m trying here,” Leonards growls. “So either shut up or fuck off— better yet, how about both, you green-blooded son of a bitch.”

 

Spock feels his lips pinch— not good. A loss of control is never acceptable, particularly around delicate (albeit Magical) Humans.

 

“Very well, Mr. McCoy,” he says sharply. “Live Long and Prosper.”

 

Spock doesn’t catch the surprise on Leonard’s face, nor does he hear the cut off little noise of indignation at his abrupt departure. Instead, he’s focused on breathing, and keeping calm, and not losing control.

 

It is… difficult.

  
  


*.*

  
  


“This bird is fucking  _magical_ ,” Jim declares, scratching QoH’s breast gently as he feeds him pieces of bacon. “Spock, why didn’t you introduce us before?”

 

“I did not think it necessary to introduce my owl to a colleague,” he says.

 

“Colleague? Is that all we are? Jesus, Spock, way to make a guy feel needed.”

 

“Of course not, Jim. However, you were a colleague first, and a friend only recently.”

 

Jim rolls his eyes, smiling.

 

“Spock, from the moment we met, I knew we’d be friends,” he says. “Even if you didn’t.”

 

Spock swallows.

 

“I do not have many friends,” he admits.

 

“No? Well, have a few, I’ve got plenty.” Jim sits back. “I’d start with Bones. You can’t have a better friend than him, even if he is a cantankerous old man.”

 

“Mr. McCoy is only twenty years old.”

 

“Practically ancient, in Hogwarts terms.”

 

“I am only two years his junior.”

 

“So? You’re a Vulcan— practically still a baby, in the eyes of the law.”

 

“The age of majority is twenty-two.”

 

“Exactly. Age of majority for Terrans is eighteen. Vulcans consider you a kid, so you’re a kid, regardless of actual age.”

 

“That is illogical, Jim.”

 

“‘Course not, Spock. It’s me respecting your culture, and your culture dictates that you’re basically just another snot-nosed brat. Like, not even a college student. High school, Spock. You’re in high school.”

 

Spock arches an eyebrow, but decides against commenting.

 

“QoH seems to like you,” he remarks.

 

“Well, I’m quite likable, Spock.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“That sounded impertinent.”

 

“It was not.” Spock pauses, absently stroking the bird’s feathers. “You believe Mr. McCoy would be amiable to a relationship with me?”

 

“Well, yeah, of course, once he got to know you. He just get nervous around new things, that’s all.”

 

“I am not new.”

 

“He’s resistant to change,” Jim says with a shrug. “Plus, you were kind of a dick to him right after a major break-up, so…”

 

“I do not understand.”

 

“Remember Jocelyn Darnell? She was a Gryffindor seventh year when we were in fourth.”

 

“I remember.”

 

“Well, they were dating. It was serious— they were talking about moving in together, maybe getting married when he finished school…” Jim trails off, mouth pinching. “Then, over the summer, something happened. She dumped him three days before he came back to Hogwarts, and he hasn’t seen her since.”

 

“I do not understand.”

 

“Well, that following school year, we were all made prefects,” he continues. “Do you remember the first thing you said to him on the train, during our first meeting?”

 

“I—”

 

“You said, ‘while I often find Humans to be illogical, based on my observations, I will be unable to work with such an impossible, emotional Human.’” Jim shakes his head. “Right after his girl dumped him.”

 

“He carries a grudge.”

 

“Not anymore, but— he’s wary.” His lip quirks. “You’re a little sharp, Spock.”

 

“Sharp, Jim?”

 

“Yeah, but that’s okay. Bones is rough. You two’ll smooth each other out just fine.”

 

Spock arches an eyebrow.

 

“I believe you are implying something,” he says. “But I am unsure what.”

 

“Well…” Jim kicks his feet, face turned towards the breeze. “You like him, don’t you?”

 

“I find him… interesting.”

 

“I gathered. I bet it’s the eyes. Those baby blues could rival  _mine_ , and I’ve been told they hold a spring day.”

 

“That statement is illogical.”

 

“Yeah, well, Stacey Zabini was a looker, not a poet.” Jim grins. “So, you like him, right?”

 

“I believe I said that.” 

 

“Come on, Spock, you know what I mean.” He looks at Spock with mischievous eyes. “You like him the same way you like me.”

 

“You are a trusted friend—”

 

“Who’s hotter than dragonfire.” Jim grins. “Spock, you wanna date me.”

 

“... Vulcans do not date.”

 

“Yeah, but you do.” Jim hops off the ledge, dusting the dirt off his pants. “You know why?”

 

“I am unsure as to—”

 

“You date,” Jim interrupts, moving closer. “Because you’re taking me to the Three Broomsticks next Hogsmeade weekend.”

 

“Jim—”

 

Jim kisses him. The Human way. Spock doesn’t stop him. In fact, once it’s happening, he finds himself rather… amiable to the activity. Jim is warm and soft around the middle and his fingers tangle with Spock’s too easily when they pull apart.

 

“Cool thing about Vulcan kisses? You can hold a conversation.” Jim’s smile is different from the ones he normally gives, somehow warmer. “It’s a tough choice, between this—” He squeezes. “— And this.” He kisses Spock again.

 

“I believe I find both options enjoyable,” Spock admits, control fraying in the face of the overwhelming gentleness of Jim’s conscious.

 

“Good.” Jim lets go. “So, Three Broomsticks, next Hogsmeade weekend. We’ll go find a dark corner, make out, and figure out how to tempt Leonard Horatio McCoy over to the dark side, got it?”

 

“I do not understand.”

 

Jim rolls his eyes.

 

“You like Bones the same way you like me,” he explains. “Though— not to brag, or anything— you’ve liked me longer. Even if you didn’t know it.” He keeps smiling, that silly, bright smile that usually Spock equates with headaches and sunshine. “You like Bones and you like me, and you know what? I like you and Bones, too. We could make this work.”

 

“You forget, Jim,” Spock says carefully, ignoring Jim’s presumptuousness. “That this arrangement also requires Mr. McCoy’s agreement.”

 

“With you logic and a cute piece of ass like me? He’d have to be crazy to say no.”

 

Spock has always thought Jim to be reckless. Reckless, and damnably lucky, illogical as the concept is.

 

“I do not believe I find Mr. McCoy interesting in the way that you believe I do,” he remarks. “And even if perhaps I did, I do not believe he would return my affections. He barely can manage a civil conversation in my presence.”

 

“Well, we’ll work on that,” Jim says. “Trust me, by the end of this year, you’ll have bagged the two most handsome and eligible bachelors Hogwarts has to offer.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


It’s clear something’s changed between Jim and Spock the moment Bones sees them together next. They’re almost touching, sometimes they are touching, and for a moment, he thinks he sees Spock smile.

 

It doesn’t sit right with him. He doesn’t know why, but it doesn’t. So he does the smart thing, and goes for a walk with his favorite flask— the one Jim Transfigured to look like an old tricorder.

 

The lake is nice, this time of year, partially frozen and lacking the normally active tentacles of the Giant Squid writhing just below the surface. It’s hibernating, probably, or maybe it’s dead. Bones sort of hopes it’s dead. Tentacles are... kind of freaky.

 

He should have seen it coming. Jim doesn’t show the kind of interest he has in Spock to just anybody, after all. Hell, the last time he saw Jim so intent on befriending somebody was Edith, and before that was… him.

 

Jim’s too young for him, even if he does seem older. Sixteen is about three years younger than Bones is comfortable with, and yeah, Jim’s beautiful and too smart and too damn worldly to really come off as sixteen, but the fact is, he is, and that puts him firmly outside of Bones’ sphere of… whatever.

 

He’s drunk. Normally he doesn’t think about stuff like this.

 

Spock’s a little young for him too, if not physically. The kid’s naive, for all that Vulcan logic, and naivety is something Bones is just too damn old to deal with. Even if it is part of what makes a handsome Vulcan so easy to rile. Even if it is why it’s occasionally amusing to start a fight, just to see what comes out of the green-blooded bastard’s mouth. Even if it does occasionally hurt Bones more than he expects.

 

Nope. Not following this line of thought either.

 

They do look good together, at least, and hey, maybe Spock’ll be better at understanding Jim’s nightmares with that touch telepathy bullshit all Vulcans apparently have. Maybe he’ll be able to calm him down and get him to eat something the morning after. Maybe—

 

Leonard’s always been a melancholy drunk. He has no idea why he keeps this shit up.

 

Sighing to himself, he settles on a half-rotted log on the edge of the lake, flask balanced on his knee. Well, like that one classical song Jim insists on singing in the shower—  _you can’t always get what you want_ . What’s a man to do but move on?

 

Drink. Drink is the answer.

 

“Mr. McCoy, it is past curfew.”

 

Leonard can’t help the groan that bubbles out of his throat. Of course  _Spock_ …

 

“Can’t you mind your own damn business for two seconds?” he asks, not turning around.

 

“You seem distressed. Perhaps it would be for the best if you were to relocate to a position further from the edge of the water. If you fall in, I cannot save you. I cannot swim.”

 

“Just leave me— wait, you can’t swim?”

 

“I cannot.”

 

Leonard lets out a harsh laugh.

 

“Figures, I guess. Bein’ a desert creature like yourself, there’d be no need to learn.”

 

“Correct.”

 

“Alright.” Bones moves to get up, nearly pitching forward into the water. He would have fallen in, if not for the long, bony fingers that catch him by the arm before he can remember why drunken swimming is not a good plan.

 

“ _Mr. McCoy._ ”

 

Leonard straightens.

 

“Nice save, Spock,” he says. “C’mon, help me back to the castle. I need to sleep.”

 

“A logical choice.”

 

Spock doesn’t let go, and Bones doesn’t do anything to make him, enjoying the way the Vulcan loops an arm around his waist to keep him upright. The silence is pretty nice, too, until Spock ruins it.

 

“You never explained your secondary reason for learning Wandless Magic.”

 

“What?”

 

Spock doesn’t look at him. “You explained the requirement for it in Mediwizardry, then mentioned Starfleet before growing angry with me. You never explained what Starfleet had to do with the subject.”

 

Leonard huffs a sigh.

 

“There was a study done on the subject of Magic and it’s interaction with Muggle technology,” he says. “It was hypothesized that Magic wasn’t actually the cause of most technical issues, but the instrument through which it was used. Spelled radios and comms use Rune Magic, for instance, and there’s yet to be an issue with either technologies.”

 

“I recall the study,” Spock remarks. “Research showed a marked difference in the functionality of Muggle technologies spelled through wandwork rather than through ritual or runework.”

 

“Exactly.” Bones’ head lolls into some semblance of a nod. “So, with that in mind… Starfleet doesn’t allow wands.”

 

“For good reason.”

 

“I’m not denying that. Those tin cans are unsafe already— I’m not holding a wand more important than my safety, but… I love magic, Spock.” Leonard looks away. “It’s… everything. And it helps me help people, too, which is always good.”

 

“I agree.”

 

“So, I figure if I can’t bring my wand, Magic’s still handy, and… if I can use it without causing any problems, why shouldn’t I?”

 

“So you have mastered Wandless Magic as an alternative,” Spock muses, thoughtful. “An excellent solution. However, you have no idea if your idea will be successful in the field.”

 

“I know. But… hell, why not?”

 

Spock doesn’t speak. In the time it had taken Leonard to explain, they’d made their way across the grounds, into the castle, and arrived at the Hufflepuff dorm.

 

“I do not know the password,” he remarks, looking at Leonard.

 

“Oh! Right…  _Montivagant_ .” The door swings open, and Spock helps him inside. The common room is blessedly empty, and with Leonard’s directions, Spock navigates his way through the winding tunnels to Leonard’s room— a single, due to his prefect status.

 

Leonard drops bonelessly onto the bed and fumbles for his shoes. Spock lets him for a moment, then kneels to help, batting the other boy’s hands away from his laces.

 

_Oh shit— even more handsome from this angle, fuck—_

 

Leonard finds him attractive. This is good, even if he is drunk.

 

Setting his shoes aside, when Spock looks up, Leonard is in his undershirt, button-down tossed aside carelessly on the floor.

 

“Thanks, Spock,” he says. The expression on his face is curious, open— soft in a way Spock has never seen. “You… I see why Jim likes you.”

 

“He too finds me attractive,” Spock agrees.

 

Leonard flushes.

 

“Not— shit, you read that? Not just that.” He looks away. “You’re a nice guy, when you want to be.”

 

Spock is unsure of what to say to that.

 

“... Thank you, Mr. McCoy.”  Spock stands. “You should lie down.”

 

“Hey!” Leonard catches him by the hand, a careless gesture for most Humans. It was careless in this moment as well, right up until the moment Leonard realizes what he’s done. Then he squeezes.

 

“... You and Jim are a thing now, ain’t’cha?”

 

Spock blinks.

 

“We are, yes.” Disappointment surges through him, not his own. Leonard tries to let go, but Spock tightens his grip.

 

“Spock?”

 

“We have decided to be in a relationship,” Spock agrees. “Jim and I have also decided that we would like a third person to join us. Do you have any idea who that it, Mr. McCoy?”

 

“Ah…”

 

Hope, just a flicker of it, along with,  _he must be messing with me, I’m an idiot—_

 

“You are not an idiot, Mr. McCoy. Your academic records would suggest that.” Spock tilts his head to one side. “QoH is an idiot. You are merely… dense.”

 

“Excuse— who the hell do you think you’re talkin’ to, kid?” The Hufflepuff is delighted. Spock can feel it.

 

“Jim claims to have had feelings for you for years,” Spock says. “I myself cannot claim such longevity, but with Jim’s help I have recognized that I, as well, have formed a complicated attachment to you. We both wish to see what comes of these attractions, with your agreement.”

 

Leonard stares. He’s drunk, and nervous, and disbelieving. Spock sits down on the edge of the bed, running his thumb over the Human’s palm.

 

“Vulcans do not lie, Mr. McCoy,” he reminds him. “You know this.”

 

“Stay the night.” The words surprise Leonard, too, that much is evident in their connection. Immediately, he flushes. “I didn’t mean it like—”

 

“I know what you meant,” Spock says. “If you like, I will stay, though likely you will require an explanation in the morning.”

 

“I’m not  _trashed_ , asshole, I’m just… tipsy.”

 

“You are more than that.”

 

“What the hell do you know?”

 

“Quite a lot, Mr. McCoy.”

 

Leonard chuckles.

 

“I can’t believe I like you,” he says. “Or Jim, for that matter. Well, fuck it. Lay down, Spock, have a nap. It’s Christmas.”

 

“It is February.”

 

“Well, it’s Christmas for me.”

 

Spock looks like he wants to roll his eyes.

 

“Very well,” he says. “You are intoxicated, and cannot be held responsible for your illogical trains of thought.”

 

There’s not enough space on the bed for two, but they make it work, mostly because Spock doesn’t argue when Leonard plasters himself to his side.

 

“Jim’s never gonna let me hear the end of this,” he mumbles into Spock’s robes. “Just you wait. He’ll be here tomorrow, bright and early, with a camera and a band.”

 

“I find that unlikely, Mr. McCoy.”

 

“... Leonard. Call me Leonard.”

 

“... Thank you. Leonard.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Spock, Bones, I must say I’m a little hurt. You two getting all cozy without me?”

 

Bones groans as the weight of a sixteen year old boy collapses on top of him, crushing him further into a thin, heartless chest.

 

“Get off, Jim!”

 

“Not until I hear all the dirty details,” Jim says. “I wanna know— who made the first move? I bet it was you, Bones, you’re huggy when you get wasted. Spock, am I right? Did he make the first move?”

 

“Affirmative.” Spock shifts. “Jim, please remove yourself. Your added weight is uncomfortable.”

 

“Did you just call me fat?” Jim obeys anyway, sliding onto the empty side of the bed.

 

“Bones, this is gonna be great,” he says. “You, me, and Spock, Starfleet officers on the flagship— once I convince Pike to give it to me, of course. He’s friends with Mom, so I could probably wear him down with her help.”

 

Bones tunes him out, shifting so he can meet Spock’s eye.

 

“I have a desire to kiss you,” Spock murmurs. “May I?”

 

Bones blinks, heart fluttering with nerves and  _oh shit, this is fantastic_ , and nods.

 

“I wouldn’t mind.”

 

Spock kisses him, and Jim keeps talking. It’s a good kiss, if slightly uncomfortable, and it doesn’t distract from the way Jim sidles closer when he realizes what they’re doing. 

 

Jim turns seventeen in March. They’re graduating in June. Assuming they last that long, it’s likely Jim’s going to insist they attend his graduation ceremony from Ole Miss. Assuming they last longer, they’ll be in Starfleet, then on a starship, doing God knows what God knows where. Bones should be more pessimistic— this should, by all rights, crash and burn within the week. But right now, slightly hungover and warmed by two, apparently clingy people that he should by all accounts be actively avoiding, he lets his mind wander.

  
Fuck it. They’re going to space.


End file.
